


hallways

by postfixrevolution



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, childhood fic, kid!Sif, kid!loki, lady in training Sif, yes this is the story of how they meet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 07:38:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4129924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution/pseuds/postfixrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are children when they first meet, his fingertips still sparking with the seidr that he cannot fully control and her hair still as golden as the platter which everyone expected her to pluck her court-lady life from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hallways

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-ed. I apologize for the dreadful grammar and spelling mistakes that are probably hiding here somewhere.

Sif is running down a hallway. It’s a grand hallway – almost impossibly so – and so much bigger than the small hallways of her small house back home. The castles of Asgard had always been a distant dream for her, and yet here she is, running down echoing stone halls of the inner courtyard with her shoes lost somewhere a few halls back and her hair flying loose from its meticulously pulled up braid. If she closes her eyes, she can almost remember the large expanse of grassy field boasted by her village, her bare feet pounding on the dirt road as she sprinted down the path and pretended she was on horseback and patrolling the beautiful countryside of Asgard between her valiant battles for the King. It was easier back home when she had her wooden sword, but the terms of her new residence in the castle forbade that she bring it, so Sif was forced to suffice with the ivory and silk fan gifted to her upon her departure from home. 

She can almost hear the disapproving voice of her etiquette instructor yelling after her as she ran, telling her that proper ladies did not sprint, did not let their hair run wild and abandon their shoes in the hallways or wield their expensive fans as swords in a make believe fight. Those are all speeches she has heard before, on multiple accounts, but Sif can’t understand why such rules should exist if hallways as unending as these also existed. 

Technically, Sif is residing in the castle because her entire village had raised money for her, the only female child born to the small population, to go to the castle and learn how to be a proper lady. Sif had heard so many stories of the castle from the many boy children in her village: the glory of battles and the feasts after, the grandeur of the training grounds and the splendor of the golden throne room. The Asgardian castle never stopped being a dream of hers, but her reason for being there was always different from the one her village expected of her. 

Sif had always been a very sharp child, even for her age (the mere point of 8 and already alone and evading tutors in a castle now) and her adventurousness and imagination were always so much bigger than the posh promises of court life. Being surrounded by the constant visiting Einherjar boys that rose from the humble beginnings of Sif’s own home village only aided the inevitable: that Sif would grow up with aspirations of swords and hard won glory. 

As she runs toward another corner, every bit the wild child and not at all the lady, Sif hears her tutor shouting faintly in the background, telling her to give up the stolen book and return to her lessons. The little girl clutches her stolen relic closer to her chest with one arm, a tome on the history of Asgardian battles and tactics, and pushes her little legs faster. She rounds a corner, almost laughing gleefully at how free she feels, but soon finds her sense of freedom abruptly cut off. 

There’s a loud exclamation, bodies rolling over each other and along the hard stone ground, and both Sif’s fan and her book skitter out of her grip. She lunges for the book first, just at the same time as another (pale, pale, almost white) set of fingers caresses the worn, leather cover. He picks it up, a lanky boy with hair the color of fresh ink and eyes the color of the melting frost-tipped grass in her village at the tail end of winter. His striking eyes stare at it, and then they turn toward her and Sif freezes. 

“Is this yours?” he asks dazedly, opening the book and flipping absently through the pages. His voice is high like the other boys her age back home, but smoother, cadenced, more refined. They sound like he is tasting the words as they spill out of his mouth, meaning every syllable of it and never not expecting any. It’s melodic, Sif thinks, and decidedly older than how he looks. 

“It is,” she replies simply. Her heart still hammers in her throat from the exhilarating sprint she just had, but she manages not to sound too breathy in front of this strangely pretty boy. He hums absently, eyes tracing across some line on the page before snapping the book shut. He bends down swiftly, picks up the fan at his feet. As Sif hefts herself up, he walks over and holds both out to her, the fan resting carefully atop the book. She takes it, hugging the book to her chest with one arm and holding her fan by her side in the other. “Thank you,” Sif says, in the only show of etiquette she has taken to heart from her tutor. 

He nods, a quick gesture of acknowledgement. “It’s a good book,” he tells her with an imperceptible smile, and Sif is stopped from asking how he knows as her etiquette teacher skids around the corner, fuming and looking ready to unleash Hel. 

“My lady!” he huffs, still breathing hard. “I have told you repeatedly that running out on lessons was simply unacceptable. From here on, I will not tolerate any more–” 

And suddenly, he stops cold. Sif holds her book even closer, but does not allow the sudden silence to deter her. She watches cautiously as her instructor’s eyes widen, and then mirrors his expression as he drops reverently to one knee and bows his head. She measures the following silence in heartbeats – one, two, three – before she hears the man murmur, “Your Majesty, forgive me for my young student, as well as my outburst.” He looks up, but not at Sif, and with a shock of realization, Sif spins around. 

Somehow, the lanky boy looks taller than he did when Sif first met him, even though the exchange was not even a few moments previously. His hands are crossed behind his back and his chrysolite eyes look severe with the slight tilt of his chin. Without the outstretched book in his hands, the hesitant half smile, he looks so much more imposing, so much more regal; Sif bows her head and falls to one knee as well, letting her book and fan drop to the ground with a careful, dull thud. 

“Apologies, my Prince,” she mutters, and locks her eyes on the floor. Past her wispy escaping curls, she sees him bend down and pick up her things, and then feels him tap her atop the head with the supple leather book cover. Sif looks up – earthen brown meeting striking chrysolite – and he has that little half smile again. It almost looks like a smirk. 

“Your apology is accepted, my Lady,” he tells her softly, “And you too, good sir,” he tells her instructor more loudly. Sif hears her instructor stumble up behind her, feels his hand resting firmly on her shoulder, and wonders whether or not she should remain kneeling. She ends up staying and watching the Prince look at the both of them. 

“We’ll be taking our leave, then,” her instructor announces. “Apologies again for the inconvenience. Sif allows the man to help pull her up, and they begin to walk off until the boy speaks again. 

“Wait!” he exclaims, and Sif is the first to twirl around and meet his eye. He rushes forward and shoves Sif’s belongings at her. Momentarily stunned, the girl blinks thrice before awkwardly remembering to thank him. They’re halfway around the corner before the young princes calls for them to wait yet again, wincing (not to silently) to himself as they face him once more. 

“That book,” he continues, fingers curling at his side as if to prevent himself from reaching for it. “My brother and I need it for our lesson. If you would not mind.” 

The tutor wastes no time in nudging Sif, shooting her a look that demanded she hand over the book. She presses her lip together, embracing the tome protectively as she frowned at the ground. The older man nudges her again, pushing her forward a little this time. She stumbles, tilting her head back to glare at her tutor. He raises an eyebrow and she mentally huffs. Trudging over to the prince with heavy feet, she holds the book out to him, eyes directed pointedly at the left wall. 

He takes the book gently, wrapping his porcelain fingers over her tanned ones, and blurting, “Would you like to join my brother and me in our lessons?” Sif’s eyes fly back to his and she hears her tutor gasp a few feet behind her. Not knowing what to do, she spares a panicked glance at the man behind her. He’s waving his hands frantically, looking frazzled and extremely unhelpful. “It is a very good book,” the boy says again, and Sif finds that she completely believes him. 

“It would be a pleasure, my Prince,” she answers with a bow of her head. 

“Loki,” he interjects. “Or Prince Loki, if you’d prefer that.” 

Sif manages a small smile. “Sif,” she tells him simply. He smiles back. 


End file.
